Free A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate Page B

currently am not.
    I make my way up to the hostess, who is aggressively tapping her touch-screen computer. She glances up at me. “Can I help you?”
    â€œI’m supposed to be meeting someone. A guy named Jeremy? Reservation for seven o’clock?”
    She raps her finger against her computer screen. “Unfortunately, you’re the first to arrive, and we can’t seat you until the entire party is present. But if you want, you can—”
    â€œLooking for me?”
    I glance over my shoulder and find Jeremy standing behind me, the jacket to his gray suit slung over his shoulder. He wears a lilac shirt with a navy grid and matching navy tie, along with a pair of shiny silver cufflinks. I feel massively unstylish in my black pants and black boatneck tee, which are slightly different shades of black and are both at least three years old. Also, even on my wiry frame, the pants are too tight. Not in a sexy way. In an “I’ve-been-eating-a-lot-of-free-brioche” kind of way. An “I-may-need-to-unbutton-my-pants-when-we-sit-down” kind of way. This outfit was a terrible mistake.
    I smile at Jeremy and motion toward the hostess. “I was just checking in.”
    â€œPerfect timing then.”
    The hostess leads us to our table, one of five two-tops lined up against the side wall, with a plush bench stretching from end to end and Lucite chairs perched on the opposite side.
    â€œBench or chair?” Jeremy asks, gesturing to the booth against the wall and the chair on the outside.
    â€œChair,” I say. An easier escape.
    I sit down, and as soon as the hostess hands us the menus, Jeremy grabs mine out of my hand. “Ah, ah, ah—not so fast,” he says. “I might only have fifteen minutes with you. I don’t want to spend the majority of it reading the menu.”
    I fold my hands in my lap. “Fair enough.”
    â€œSo tell me a little about yourself. How long have you been working at the farmers’ market?”
    â€œTwo months today, actually. Since you saw me there for the first time in December.”
    â€œHow’d you get into that?”
    â€œLong story. My friend Heidi got food poisoning, and I had to fill in for her, and then working there became a good way to make a few bucks while I look for a real job.”
    He raises an eyebrow as he takes a sip of water. “You’re still out of work?”
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘still’?”
    â€œThat night I met you at Bar Pilar, you mentioned losing your job. . . .”
    â€œOh, right. When you were eavesdropping.” He starts to object, but I cut him off. “Sorry—you weren’t eavesdropping. I was just talking REALLY LOUD.”
    The couple at the table next to us jumps, and Jeremy flushes. “Here we go again. . . .”
    â€œSorry,” I say. “Bad joke.”
    He grins and relaxes. “So back to the farmers’ market . . .”
    â€œRight. The market. I’ve been working for Wild Yeast for two months, a few days a week. And this week I’ve been e-mailing with the woman who manages most of the markets in DC, and she may pay me to write their weekly newsletter.”
    â€œThat sounds cool. Would that be a temporary thing too?”
    â€œNot sure. Ideally the work on the newsletter would help me land a job in food journalism, which is what I’ve always wanted to do anyway.”
    Jeremy’s cheeks flush. “Ah.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œI . . . nothing.”
    â€œWhat, you have something against food writers?”
    His expression darkens. “No. I used to be one.”
    â€œReally?” I study his face. I’d thought he looked familiar. “Where?”
    He clears his throat. “The Washington Chronicle .”
    â€œWow—seriously? That’s like my dream job. Why did you leave?”
    â€œLong story.” He glances down at his watch and grimaces.